House Hunting

07 May 2011 4 Comments

by hmpohlig in Uncategorized

Hi everybody, I know it’s been about a year since I posted anything, but apparently Kimberly Humphrey still regularly checks to see if I do…so, here’s a tribute to her!

Over the past few weeks, Jimmy and I have been searching for a place to rent during the upcoming school year. Like most couples, we have our wish list of desirable characteristics in a house—price point, location, space, etc. Being a drummer, Jim would love to have a house where he could play at will (play drums, not just play), but being college students, many of the houses in the more appealing locations are above budget for us. Still, we have continued searching, gradually expanding our geographical radius wider and wider as the list grows longer and the phone calls increase. We have seen some lovely homes out of budget, as well as others on the opposite end of the spectrum.

601 McCormick would fall under the latter subheading, a structure best described as a hovel, comfortably nestled on a corner lot across from a fenced in plot where a variety of weeds and onions grow happily in abundance.  It is the perfect site for a junkyard, if the owners can get a pit bull. Anyway, the Jim and I had an appointment to see the hovel (the appointment having been made prior to actually viewing the property), with one M. Driver, the man in charge…well, in all honesty, I’m not sure what he is charged with, but he isn’t the owner. We waited some minutes, distastefully eyeing the overgrown holly bush blocking all light into the tiny front room. A struggling oak tree was growing in the bush, and an inexplicable amount of fluff was strewn about the carpet-square yard. I was beginning to examine the mold on the descending roof when a loud SUV screeched into the cracked cement driveway. A tall, built man of thirty or so stepped out of the SUV, wearing sunglasses and a decidedly unwashed tee shirt whose pit stains betrayed its age. He introduced himself as M. Driver, the man we came to see, and hastily proceeded to fiddle with a heavy padlock on the front door. It took some time to successfully insert the key, but Driver eventually kicked open the door and excitedly led us into the dark cave of the living room. We were instantly overwhelmed with the aged odor of cigarette smoke, soaked into the stained carpet, the peeling wallpaper, the dingy curtains. Driver smiled hugely and gestured widely around the gloomy space, further depressed by a pair of dull blue curtains killing any possibility of sunlight. He led us through the small kitchen talking loudly, trying his best to sell the house while assuring us that the monkey curtains were a part of the package deal. Our train passed through a room the size of a closet (perfect for children, according to our host), a slightly larger “master bedroom”, and a bathroom that appeared to have been there since the advent of indoor plumbing.  Driver showed us the washing machine, impossibly crammed into a corner, and enthusiastically informed us that the dryer was housed outside on the sliver of a back porch. I wondered at this.

We finally came to the apparent object of Driver’s delight, a gas heater, installed after the unusually harsh winter storm of 2003. Our host told us the story of the genius owner who intentionally left the unit stuck to the wall of the living room for people like us who could “huddle close and stay put” during any unpredicted winter weather. The horrifying thought of being trapped in this cigarette dump, unable to leave the premises, married or not, was almost too much. I welcomed the fresh air as we returned from the house to the front porch. Driver relocked the door with unwarranted precaution and proceeded to inform us of the enormous advantage that we as students would have living at the particular location.

As we were already aware, UNCG is expanding in the upcoming year, and much of the neighborhood will be demolished as campus invades its space.  Driver made a peculiar attempt to convince us that said expansion would be a great benefit to us since we would be much closer to the school’s boundary…right across the street, in fact. I pondered how gullible he must have hoped we were to try to persuade us that a) construction noise would be no inconvenience and b) that construction would be anywhere close to finished by the time we moved in. On the contrary, it would only have just begun. Still, we smiled, nodded, and tried not snort in disagreement.

Driver’s dreams came true when a college kid of twenty-two or so pulled up in front of the house and emerged, tattoos visible, sunglasses mounted. He greeted us and introduced himself as the brother of the young man who lived in the unkempt house across the street. As he proceeded to extract two clinky brown paper bags, two mostly empty Coke bottles and a video game from the trunk, Driver invested in the fresh opportunity to show off the neighborhood. He asked the young man what he thought about the place, to which he replied that although he didn’t technically live there, it was everything he could ask for. He confided in us that they were very good neighbors, save on weekends when the excitement sometimes overcame them. We told him that we understood and he welcomed us with open arms. I could swear Driver was about to march up to the young man and kiss him on the forehead when the young man carried his liquor and video game into the parallel yard and disappeared through the door.

After a few more minutes of his sales talk, we shook hands with our host and listened as he instructed us where to download the application form online. Needless to say, we haven’t called back. Somewhere out there is another college kid who can’t be bothered with roaches or light, will sleep in a closet, use the gas heater and make M. Driver a very happy man. And he’ll get the monkey curtains thrown in.